Chapter 8
Claudette
The world disappeared.
One second I was stretching on my toes, fingers brushing the spine of a book on the top shelf. The next second the floor vanished and everything spun, like someone had grabbed the room and twisted it sideways.
I went down. Didn’t even have time to catch myself. Just dropped, hit the carpet with my hip and shoulder, books tumbling around me in a messy cascade of paper and dust. The ceiling swam above me, all those perfect white lines blurring together.
I blinked hard, trying to make the spinning stop. Trying to remember how to breathe properly. My heart was doing something strange in my chest—beating too fast and too hard, like it was trying to escape.
This had happened before. I knew that somehow. The dizziness felt familiar in a way I couldn’t explain.
The door exploded open.
The sound made me jump even though I was already on the floor.
Michael stood in the doorway, and the look on his face almost stopped my heart. Pure terror—like he’d walked in expecting to find me dead.
“I’m okay,” I managed. My voice came out thin. “I’m fine.”
He was beside me before I even finished the sentence. I didn’t even see him cross the room. Just suddenly he was there, dropping to his knees so hard I heard the impact even through the carpet.
That had to hurt. But he didn’t seem to notice.
His hands found my face, cupping my cheeks and tilting my head up to look at him. His palms were warm against my skin, his fingers sliding into my hair. The touch sent heat racing through me, even though I was on the floor surrounded by books.
“Are you hurt?” His voice came out jagged with fear. “Claudie. Talk to me. Where does it hurt?”
“Nowhere. I just got dizzy.”
He didn’t look remotely convinced. His eyes moved over my face like he was paying attention to every detail, searching for signs of damage. His hands stayed on my face, holding me like I might disappear if he let go.
I realized I was staring at him. At the way his dark eyes had gone almost black with fear. At the muscle working in his jaw. At his mouth, which was much closer than I’d realized.
God, he was beautiful.
I’d known that objectively. Had spent years being aware that Michael Ashford was unfairly attractive. But this close, with his hands on my face and his body radiating heat, it hit me like a tidal wave.
“Just dizzy? You’re sure? Nothing else?”
I couldn’t think with him this close. “I—I reached too high. Got lightheaded. It’s really not a big deal.”
“You’re on the floor, Claudette.” His hand slid down to my neck, fingers wrapping around the side of my throat. “You scared the hell out of me.”
I could feel my pulse hammering against his palm. Could feel the tremor running through his fingers that he was trying to hide.
“Why are you so scared?” I asked, quieter now.
“Sorry, not scared. I’m concerned.”
“Liar.” I reached up, covered his hand with mine. “You’re shaking.”
His jaw clenched. “Finding your wife collapsed on the floor is generally concerning. Is that really so hard to understand?”
He’d called me his wife again.
The word sent butterflies rioting through my stomach even though this was probably not the appropriate moment for butterflies. But hearing him say it, hearing the possessive edge in his voice when he said it, did something to me.
Made me feel claimed in a way that should probably concern me—but didn’t.
Made me want him to say it again.
Made me want to close the distance between us and find out if his mouth felt as good as it looked.
“Let’s get you off the floor,” he said, his voice dropping an octave.
His hands moved to my waist and I felt every point of contact like electricity. He helped me sit up, his body close enough that I could feel the heat of him, smell that scent that was becoming dangerously familiar.
My eyes drifted to the book on the bookshelf I’d been reaching for.
Every book I’d ever loved was there.
Not just the famous ones everyone read. These were my books.
The obscure poetry collections I’d discovered in a used bookstore during college and spent a month obsessed with.
The philosophy texts I’d read the summer after graduation when I was trying to figure out what I wanted from life.
Art books I’d paged through a hundred times, memorizing paintings and sculptures.
Books I’d mentioned once in passing at a dinner party three years ago and never thought about again.
All of them here. On this shelf. In Michael’s bedroom.
“How did you know about these?” I whispered.
“I pay attention. I’ve been paying attention to you for a very long time.”
“How long?”
“Long enough.” He said it simply. “I’ve been collecting these for two years. Since I came back from London and realized I was done lying to myself that I didn’t want you.”
My chest felt tight. Like something was expanding inside it that didn’t quite fit.
“It still feels strange,” I said. “This whole thing. Us being married. Us being anything.”
“Why?”
“Because you never looked at me.” The words came out before I could stop them. “At family dinners, at holidays, at every single event where we were in the same room. You never talked to me beyond polite small talk.”
“I looked.” His hand tightened on my waist. “I looked constantly. I just made sure you never caught me.”
“Why not?”
“Because I couldn’t let myself want you.
” His eyes met mine and the intensity in them made my stomach flip.
“Wanting your best friend’s sister felt like a betrayal.
Jack trusted me. And wanting you the way I did felt like breaking that trust. So I looked away.
I kept distance. I pretended I didn’t notice you. ”
“And now?”
“Now you’re my wife. Now I don’t have to pretend anymore.”
I tried to stand. I desperately needed air because being this close to him was making it impossible to think straight.
“Wait,” Michael said.
I ignored him and pushed to my feet, holding the shelf for balance.
I made it halfway to a second step before the world lurched violently again.
My knees buckled. I was falling and there was nothing I could do to stop it.
Then Michael’s arms were around me.
He moved so fast I didn’t even see it coming. Just suddenly he was there, catching me, lifting me like I weighed nothing at all. One arm slid under my knees, the other around my back, and suddenly I was against his chest, cradled in his arms.
My breath stuttered.
We were very close. Closer than we’d been since that morning I’d woken up in his bed and found him walking out of the bathroom in just a towel with water dripping down his chest.
I could feel every place we were touching. His chest was solid against my side, all muscle and heat under his t-shirt. His arms were strong under my knees and around my back, holding me steady.
And I could feel his heart. It was beating hard. Too hard. Hammering against his ribs like he’d been running even though he’d just been sitting on the floor with me.
“I can walk,” I managed, the words shaky and unconvincing.
“I know you can.” His voice was low. Almost a growl. “I’m carrying you anyway.”His arms tightened around me. “Because touching you is the only thing keeping me from losing my mind right now.”
Oh.
Heat flooded through me at the honesty in his voice as he started carrying me toward the couch.
I let him carry me.
He set me down on the couch carefully, but he didn’t immediately let go. His hands lingered on my arms.
I stared at his hands. At the way they rested on my arms. Then, I noticed it again.
“Michael.” I looked up at him. “Why are you shaking? And don’t tell me I’m that heavy.”
“I’m not.” His lips twitched slightly. “I’ll get you water.”
He was gone before I could argue.
I sat there thinking about the terror I’d seen in his face earlier. What happened wasn’t worth the kind of panic I’d seen on his face when he’d burst through that door.
I didn’t get to finish the thought because Michael returned carrying water and a book.
He sat beside me—not touching, but close enough that I could feel the heat radiating off him. He handed me the water and I drank while he watched.
“Better?” he asked.
“I was fine to begin with.”
“Humor me.”
I set down the empty glass and looked at the book in his hand. Familiar cover. One I’d seen a hundred times. “Why do you have Jane Eyre?”
“I thought you might want me to read to you.”
I blinked at him. “You read to me?”
“I… yeah, I do,” He smiled while my heart was fluttering too wildly. Michael Ashford used to read to me? What else had I missed in the past year?
“Okay. Read.”
He opened to the first chapter and started.
His voice was perfect for it.
Deep and steady and rich. The kind of voice that wrapped around you and made you want to close your eyes and just listen.
He did all the accents without being ridiculous about it.
Made each character distinct and real. Young Jane sounded appropriately miserable.
Mrs. Reed sounded cold. The servants sounded weary.
I found myself leaning against him without deciding to. My shoulder pressed against his arm. My head found his shoulder like it had done this a thousand times before. Like this was where I belonged.
There’d been a journal I had when I was a teen. The memory surfaced suddenly. A bucket list Pauline and I had made when we were sixteen and thought we’d live forever. Full of ridiculous teenage dreams about the lives we wanted.
Having Michael read to me had been on that list.
Number sixty-three. Written late at night during a sleepover after I’d watched him at a family dinner, wondering what his voice would sound like reading poetry or novels or anything that wasn’t polite conversation.
I’d imagined it would be nice.
I’d been underselling it.
His voice reading Jane Eyre was doing things to me that were probably illegal in classic literature. Making me aware of how close we were sitting. How warm he was. How his fingers were still tracing those maddening circles on my hip.
“How long have we been doing this?” I asked quietly, interrupting him mid-sentence.
He paused. Set his finger on the page to mark his place. “Um… a few months, probably.” I could feel the hesitation in his voice, that maybe he wasn’t sure. But I ignored it.
“Tell me.”
“You’d fall asleep on me while I read.” His voice had gone softer.
Warmer. His hand moved from my hip to my hair, fingers threading through the strands.
“Every single time. You’d make it maybe three chapters before you were out.
I’d keep reading anyway because I liked having you there, the way you’d curl up against me.
Liked knowing you felt safe enough with me to sleep. ”
My throat went tight.
“I wish I could remember.”
“I remember enough for both of us.” His fingers traced down my spine and I shivered. “And it won’t be long before you catch up.”
“What else?” I looked up at him. Found him already looking at me, his eyes dark and intense. “What else did we do?”
He was quiet for a moment. His hand stilled on my back.
“Late-night conversations,” he said finally. “You’d call me at two in the morning because you couldn’t sleep. We’d talk about nothing until you were tired again. Sometimes for hours. I’d fall asleep listening to your voice and wake up with my phone dead because we’d never hung up.”
The image made something warm bloom in my chest.
“You’d steal my clothes.” His eyes dropped to what I was wearing, and the look in them made heat pool low in my stomach. “You’re doing it right now actually.”
I looked down. He was right. Oversized t-shirt that came halfway down my thighs. Definitely not mine.
“Why didn’t you mention it?”
“Because you look better in my clothes than I ever did.” His voice had dropped lower, gone husky. His hand slid back up my spine, making me arch into the touch. “Because seeing you in my shirt drives me insane in the best way.”
Heat rushed to my face. I felt it burn across my cheeks, down my neck. Felt myself blush like a teenager even though I was twenty-eight years old and married to this man.
Michael’s eyes tracked the flush. Watched it spread across my skin with something that looked like satisfaction.
“I like that,” he said quietly.
“What?”
“Making you blush.” His thumb brushed across my heated cheek. “Knowing I can affect you like this.”
“You’re shameless.”
“No.” His hand moved to cup my face. “I’m being honest about wanting you. About wanting to touch you. About thinking you’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”
His eyes dropped to my mouth. Lingered there. Then slowly, deliberately, moved back to my eyes.
“I believe you now,” I whispered, the words barely audible.
“What do you believe?”
“That we were in love.” I reached up, touched his face. Felt stubble scratch under my palm. His skin was warm and alive. “I believe you loved me. That you still love me.”
His hand came up to cover mine, pressing my palm harder against his cheek. His eyes never left mine.
“You’re everything to me, Claudie.” His voice was unsteady. Exposed. “You’re the first thing I think about when I wake up and the last thing before I sleep. You’re the constant. The thing I measure everything else against.”
He leaned in. Slowly. His eyes never left mine, asking permission without words.
My breath caught. I could feel his breath warm on my lips. Could smell him. Could feel the heat of him.
His mouth was an inch from mine. Maybe less.
Then he stopped.
His eyes closed. His jaw clenched. And he pulled back.
My stomach dropped with disappointment so sharp it was almost painful.
“Michael?”
“We should take this slow.” His voice was strained. Like stopping had cost him everything. “You don’t remember us. I don’t want to push you into something you’re not ready for.”
I wanted to tell him I was ready. That I wanted him to kiss me. That I’d been wanting it since I woke up in his bed. That slow was the last thing I wanted.
But he was right.
I didn’t remember us. Didn’t remember falling in love.
I was falling for him now though. In real time. But that wasn’t the same.
“Okay,” I said finally. “Slow.”
“Slow,” he agreed. But his hand stayed on my face, thumb still tracing my cheekbone like he couldn’t quite make himself stop touching me.
He picked up the book again, found his place, and started reading like nothing inside him had just broken open.
And even though he hadn’t kissed me, even though I couldn’t remember falling in love with him the first time, this felt perfect.
This felt like something I could fall into and never want to climb back out of.
This felt like love.
Even if I couldn’t remember it yet.